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Wednesday, August 29, 2012

As many of you know, I'm
single and have been for some time. I've probably reached the point
where people think there's something wrong with me.

Nothing wrong with me at all, I'm a catch.

I'm not actually that fussed
about dating. I haven't met anyone who seems worth it. I have better
things to do than sit around in restaurants, morosely picking
at my cheese fondue while some starry-eyed stranger tries to cram
our lives together like the wrong two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

Besides, I know how love
happens. Love, like cancer and car accidents, happens when you least
expect it. One day, you're going about your business, not bothering
anyone, when suddenly, BAM! You're in it.

Ugh.

Nevertheless, some of my
girl friends are desperate to see me blissfully happy, whether I like
it or not. Granted, I've been known to b*tch about being single, but
I have to listen to them b*tch about their boyfriends, and turnabout
is fair play.

Their unsolicited advice
doesn't exactly bother me, but much of it is just plain f*cking
stupid. Such as:

Pressuring Me to Date People
I Don't Wanna Date

I guess everyone, at some
point, has at least one dismal prospect who just keeps hanging
around, no matter how many times you tell them to f*ck off. My girl
friends keep encouraging me to go out with one, some, or all of these
people. When I say, “Well, I'm really not interested at all,”
they respond with things like:

“But he loves
you.” Maybe, but I don't love him. The last time I checked,
that was kind of important.

“Oh, come on, it's
only a matter of time.” What the hell does that even mean?

“Sometimes you just
have to make do.” No, sometimes you just have to make do.
I, on the other hand, am hot. I do not have to make do.

“Oh, you know how
girls are. Just sleep with him a couple of times, you'll fall in
love.” Really? You don't say! Tell me more, divorcée.

You might as well just come
right out and say it – “You're lucky to get anyone! You'd better
go for it because you might not get anyone else! Ever! Again!”
Please, your desperation is driving even
me away.

Seriously, though, I thought
we knew this was a recipe for disaster. This kind of thing leads to
sexual frustration, depressive disorders, romance novels,
extramarital affairs and some poor bastard sobbing at the end of the
bar. Funnily enough, when I say, “If you like him so much why don't
you date him yourself,” all they'll do is shudder.

I can't imagine why.

Telling Me I Should “Make
More of an Effort”

I get this one a lot: “You
don't even try, Marjorie. Maybe if you made more of an effort,
Marjorie.”

To be fair, maybe I could
make more of an effort. Maybe I could stick my tits out and toss my
hair around and giggle a lot and say things like, “Oh my Gawwwwd,
you're so smart!”

Then again, if you're a
regular reader, you're probably aware that I don't give a happy f*ck.
It's not that I don't care about my appearance, it's that I reckon my
appearance is already pretty damn good and I don't need an inch of
shellac to bring it up to code. I'm not that kind of girl, anyway. I
like not wearing makeup, because it means I can rub my eyes.

And no, I don't see a problem with this. I might as
well start as I plan to continue, right? I'm not going to become a
totally different person just because some stud waved his magical
c*ck wand at me, so there's no point in false advertising.

Pushing Me to Settle

As you may have guessed,
I've spent a lot of time with the wrong people. It's left a bad taste
in my mouth – kinda like sucking on nickels. Especially if one of
those nickels got dropped on a hot sidewalk and spent some time stuck
to old gum.

Ew.

Having wasted years of my
life hanging out with dumbsh*ts, you can imagine how I feel about the
prospect of wasting more time with more dumbsh*ts. I've only got one
life, as far as I know, and I'd prefer to spend the rest of it not
putting up with unnecessary crap, where at all possible. I'll take
this one step further and say that I would also prefer not to
find myself giving another person unnecessary crap, just because
they're such an ass-kissing little b*tch. Remember, kids, it's hard
to respect someone who's kissing your ass.

Yes, I know that I'm Not
Getting Any Younger and I Don't Have Very Much Time Left and If I
Don't Find Someone Soon, It Will Be Too Late. Because men are like
bananas or something – yeah, actually, they are. By the time you
get to the shops, all that's left are the black ones and the green
ones, ha ha ha.

That's not racist, it's a metaphor. ~ Steve Hopson

But I digress. The next time
you're down at the supermarket, trying to choose between the
under-ripe and over-ripe bananas, look around for a second at all of
the weirdos who have managed to find True Love. That's right – and
what am I? Hot, goddammit! I'm sure when the time comes, I'll be able
to find someone with two eyes and all of his teeth. Fear not.

Of course, maybe the time
will never come. Maybe it won't come until I'm all old and fugly
myself. I don't want kids, so it doesn't matter. When I'm damn good
and ready, and not a moment before, I'll go down to the supermarket
and chat someone up while I'm buying bananas. Two birds, one stone.

And daiquiris. ~ Chilli Club

Encouraging Me to Move Too
Fast

I'm going to call it “moving
too fast” even though what I'm technically talking about is moving
in too fast. A friend once tried to tell me that the deadline for
moving in with a man is six months. As in, “You'd better be living
together by six months because men won't wait much longer than that.”

Wait...what?

I guess it's normal for a
couple to move in together after, like, two months, but I guess it's
also normal to have a bad, bitter break-up and block traffic by
throwing your ex-partner's crap into the street, only to have them
make a Facebook profile under your mutual child's name and pretend
that a six-month-old can type, and that nobody knows it's really them
making douche-y remarks about you on a public forum. I wish to avoid
this kind of thing.

Even without the drama,
cohabitation is a f*cking big deal. When it happens, you sort of
start to melt together like a weird f*cking sci-fi monster with two
heads and no shame. Some people even go to the bathroom in front of
each other, for f*ck's sake. I mean, if someone's gonna be watchin' me piss, I've gotta be damn sure it's for the right reasons.

Friday, August 24, 2012

Okay, so it's been some time
since I did a Fun Friday Facts. I know, I know, I'm a horrible
blogger and a bad person and I'm not fit to lick your boots. Which is
just as well, since I didn't want to lick your boots anyway, you
freaky sonofabitch.1

The kitten I received was
about three weeks old, so I thought I'd keep it until it was old
enough to give away. That, of course, didn't work out so well and I'm
keeping it anyway. Even though it bites the sh*t out of me. Every.
Single. Day.

I can't say no to those enormous feet.

1) For many years,
scientists believed that the domestication of cats was a relatively
recent phenomenon, dating to about 3,600 years ago in ancient Egypt.
While it's true that the ancient Egyptians took cat ownership to a
whole new level, creating an entire society of crazy Cat Ladies where
the killing of a cat was considered a crime
punishable by death, more recent evidence suggests that the
domestication of cats goes
back much further, to the dawn of civilization in the Fertile
Crescent.

That would be this area right here. ~ Nafsadh

That means people have been
keeping cats as pets for at least 10,000 years, but possibly as long
as 12,000 years.

2) If you have ever known a
cat, you'll know that they aren't domesticated in quite the same way
as other domesticated animals, like dogs, cows or sheep. Unlike these
animals, cats don't need to rely on people for their food, and they
certainly don't depend on their owners to hook them up with sexy cats
of the opposite sex. Or same sex, for that matter, since cats can
be gay, apparently.

Sinner!!!

Most house cats, no matter
how soft and lazy they may seem, are bloodthirsty killers. That's to
say, they're perfectly capable of taking care of themselves, thank
you, . According to a bunch of scientists' best guess, cats were
attracted to the rodents that adapted to live in early grain silos
and refuse heaps. From there, they seem to have decided that humans
were kind of alright, and humans seem to have decided the same.

I'm here because I want to be, not because I need to be.

3) Kitty-cat facial features
do tend to inspire nurturing feelings in people – their high
foreheads, large eyes and short faces mimic
the features of a human baby. It's perhaps for this reason that
the first cat ladies took in the first house kittens 12,000 years
ago. Or maybe their kids drug them in. Kids are forever dragging
creatures into the house. Ancient moms were probably just relieved
they hadn't brought in snakes again.

"Can we keep it Ma? Puh-leeeeeze?"

4) Researchers at the
University of Sussex have discovered that
cats use a special kind of purr to solicit food from their
owners. Cats seem to know that howling obnoxiously will just piss
people off, so they emit a complex, high-pitched purr that inspires a
feeling of urgency and a need to nurture in the human brain. The cry
imitates that of a hungry human infant. And yes, there is scientific
evidence that cats form stronger
bonds with women than they do with men. Cats have been hailed as
expert manipulators, with one researcher saying, “If you ask people who own cats what they do when they get up they say they feed their cats. Even before they have a cup of coffee. Cats are very good at getting their own way."

When I piss mine off, he straight-up punches me in the face.

5) The oldest cat in the world was called Cream Puff. She lived for 38 years, from 3 August 1967 to 6 August 2005, with Jake Perry in Austin, Texas. Perry also owned Granpa Rex's Allen, who held the record prior to Cream Puff, with a life span of 34 years. Perry credited his cats' vegetable-rich diet and active lifestyles for their longevity. Tizzie, an English contender for the title, claimed a lifespan of 36 years and counting in 2009. Sadly, Tizzie's owner Jim has been unable to prove her age, because her vet records remain incomplete. Jim told The Sun in 2009 that Tizzie showed no signs of slowing down, and credited her extremely advanced age and vitality to “something in the water.”

6) Also, cats can grow wings. When I first saw that I totally thought it was bullsh*t, but it turns out to be a real picture of a real cat with honest-to-god wings. Okay, it can't fly or anything. But still.

According to Wikipedia, cat wings are often merely large mats of fur, which totally doesn't count at all, in my opinion. Cat wings can also grow due to a skin condition known as feline cutaneous asthenia, which causes extreme stretchiness of the skin. The wings may even have some muscle tissue in them, allowing the cat to flap them a little.

The wings could also occur if the cat grows extra limbs on its back. Ew.

The Chinese lady said her cat grew wings at the age of one year, so I guess four-month-old Shoe could still become a freak of nature.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

If you're still having
trouble distinguishing “your” from “you're” and “its”
from “it's,” this post is not for you. This post is lost on you.
Go
read this post instead. Maybe you'll learn something.

No, in this post, we're
going to learn
some new
words! See if you can't slip some of these into the convo
next time you're visiting the folks or binge drinking with friends.
Remember, though, in this economy, many people can't afford
ten-dollar words like these. Try not to show off too hard.

You b*tch, you know I can't afford this blatherskite.

Formicate –
verb

Ha
ha ha ha it means, “to swarm like ants.” As in, The
neighborhood children formicate over the ice cream truck. You
dirty-minded bastard.

Flapdoodle –
noun

Nonsense;
bullsh*t; blatherskite.
This is one of my personal faves, but I can't seem to convince anyone
it actually exists.

When
I used the word flapdoodle, my creative writing professor told me to
stop making up words. That b*tch.

Consisting
of human skin. When that guy you met online turns out to be a serial
killer, you'll be able to describe his home décor and/or wardrobe to
the 911 dispatcher. You're welcome.

Fantods –
noun

A nervous fit; a state of
extreme agitation.

The sight of the
anthropodermic sofa upholstery gave him the fantods – as well it
might, for his host was a chainsaw-wielding clown. “Dear God,” he
prayed, “if you get me out of this alive, I swear I'll never look
for dates on Craigslist ever again.” Alas, it was not to be, for
there is no God, and thus did the chainsaw-wielding clown gain a new
pair of matching lampshades.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

Yesterday, I was in that kind of gloomy, horrible mood a girl tends to fall into when she's got her period, and the global economy is in a shambles, and there might be a Republican hiding in the bushes with a big sack, a chloroform-soaked rag, and a turkey baster.1 But then I opened up my mailbox and found a cheery little parcel from Paulie Elliott & Sarah E. Melville, and I was all like, "Ooooh, a present!" Cause who doesn't like presents? Nobody, that's who.

First, there was an awesome card:

Because I moved into a new house. More on that later. Maybe. Or not.

Then, a bar of fancy-schmancy soap, which is also awesome, BECAUSE F*CK YEAH I F*CKING LOVE SOAP.

Cleanliness: It's next to godliness.

Aaaaand, best of all, this F*CKING AMAZING mug:

It says, "I don't give a f*ck."

But wait! There's more! Inside the mug, this bead, which I had admired on Sarah's Facebook:

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Of course, no matter what I
say, you're still going to try to draw me into a discussion about:

Your Politics

Unless, of course, they're
the same as mine, which they're not, because if they were, we
wouldn't be discussing them. Have you ever noticed that? You never
talk politics with someone who agrees with you. You just sort of nod
at each other and then move on to subjects that you're not both
f*cking sick of yet.

As with most things, there
is an exception – I will be happy to explain how living with
socialized healthcare did not make me (or anyone else that I
knew, including the 100-year-old lady downstairs who walked with two
canes) keel over and die. I'm sure you'll find that fascinating.

Please put down the holy water, I'm not going to bite you. Much.

Your Religion

Specifically, I don't wanna
hear about how persecuted you are because you love Jesus. If you're a
Christian in America, you're not f*cking persecuted. Our
schoolchildren are still asked to pledge allegiance to your god every
morning, for f*ck's sake, that's like the opposite of persecuted. I think the word I'm looking for is "privileged."

Now, before you get all up on your high horse about Jesus-bashing and start waving around pictures of the crippled
soldiers who fought for your right to be an a**hole, let's establish
what it means to be persecuted. You're not persecuted just because others disagree with you, or fail to let you push them around, or go on the Internet and talk about how stupid they think you are.
You're persecuted when founding
a home church is punishable by execution. You're persecuted when
you're beaten
to death for praying. Until something like that happens to you,
shut up. You're not persecuted. You're just a douche.

The world is not your teenager; it is not your job to correct it. ~ Sister72

Everyone who knows me knows
I hate conspiracy theories, but I still keep hearing, “I know you
hate conspiracy theories, but just listen to mine.” All
those other conspiracy theories are clearly bunk, but your
theory of how JFK's brain was abducted by lizard-beings
from the planet Nibiru, who traveled to Earth in their invisible
fusion-powered rocket ships, makes perfect sense.

I hate to be the one to piss
on your fireworks, but your conspiracy theories are bullsh*t. I know
it's tempting to blame everything that's wrong with the world on the
evil machinations of a top-secret cabal of rich bald white men who
meet in a top-secret bunker somewhere, probably under the Rockies,
every Thursday night at 8:00 PM, sharp, and take turns bringing the
donuts. I'll tell you what's really going on, and here it is: Bad
things are happening, ALL BY THEMSELVES.

Monday, August 13, 2012

So, a few weeks ago now, I had a photo
shoot on the campus of West Virginia Wesleyan College with the
renowned Leona Davis, an old schoolmate of mine. I had decided that
it might be time to have some real, actual, edit-the-mustache-out
author shots taken. I asked Leona because I was vaguely aware that
she was a photographer or possibly knew someone who was a
photographer. I turned out to be right.

As usual.

Leona kindly agreed to take some photos
of me, and, as a special Friend Bonus, also make sure that I looked
hot in them. In return for this kindness, I taught her three-year-old
to say “douchenozzle.”

He pronounces it wrong, but he's only three.

The photo shoot gave us the opportunity
to catch up on the past 12 years and reminisce about high school. It
turns out that, unbeknownst to either of us at the time, we hated all
the same b*tches. That's the basis of a true friendship -- hating all the same people.

After viewing the photos, I was
personally scandalized by the horrid amount of weight that I've
gained, but no one else seems to have noticed, except for some very
ill-mannered relations who think it's okay to randomly ask if I'm
pregnant.

NOT pregnant, JUST fat. Bitch.

No, but seriously, she did a great job.
No mustache, no double chin and my boobs look enormous. Thumbs-up.

I really only needed a couple of
photos, but I ended up with lots. That's cool, I can use some on my
dating profile to reel in more winners.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

I hate dogs. I hate that you
have to teach them not to sh*t wherever they happen to be standing. I
hate barking. I hate wagging. I hate playing fetch. I hate obedience
and I can't stand unconditional love.

If any of you ever buys me a tiny, paisley hammer, I'm going to bury it right between your eyes.

Those are pink flamingos embroidered on those trousers, if you couldn't tell.

Admittedly, the large
bottles are kinda cool. Every time I go into an antique shop, I feel
a little sympathy for compulsive hoarders. I won't become one,
though, because I'm not the kind of person who keeps useless things
around, unless they are cats.

Hoard Cats

The pug's gonna hate that.

"Fuck you [snort, wheeze, snuffle] bitch." ~
Piotr Czerniawski

Vote
Republican

I'd
be concerned about that statement pissing some people off, but
something tells me they aren't here with us today.

Move
to an Ashram in India

Or
maybe Colorado, since it's closer and I won't need a visa. Does
anyone know if India gives out “white pampered spiritual pilgrim”
visas? Do they give them to Republicans? Can I bring the pug?

He can do yoga.

I
guess I'll have to ditch the 75 cats and the floral garden tools,
though. One must surrender all attachments to achieve enlightenment.

Plus pink flamingos are a sin. I think.

(Btw I'm sorry I haven't blogged in like two months. I had to test your loyalty cause I'm insecure and manipulative. That's a lie, it's actually cause I'm lazy and I suck. I promise to do better in the future. At least until I don't.)